Small Surprises
by alasweneverdo
Summary: Sherlock Holmes didn't strike him as the fatherly type. Kidfic.
1. Chapter 1

"Come on," he said with a self-deprecating smile, "who'd want me for a flatmate?" At that Stamford chuckled as though he'd said something amusing. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today," said Stamford.

That got John's attention. "Who was the first?"

His acquaintance turned out to be an eccentric fellow who, according to Mike, would likely be in Barts about now. The portly man would give no further details, saying only that he thought they both had a lot to gain from a flatshare if they could only manage to put up with each other. Since his return to London, John was admittedly finding it difficult to put up with much of anyone, though he wasn't about to say so. Mike was trying to do him a favor; the least John could do in return was humor him.

When they reached the lab it had a single occupant, who regarded them with a glance as they entered. "Well," John muttered as he took in his surroundings. "Bit different from my day." And so was he, he noted bitterly, limping through the doorway.

Stamford let out a short laugh. "You've no idea."

The stranger cut in abruptly without looking up. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." His tone was drenched with boredom, as if talking were a tedious matter.

"What's wrong with a landline?" asked an exasperated Mike.

"I prefer to text."

John observed the exchange with interest. Mike appeared to be holding back a long-suffering sigh, but the stranger either took no notice of this or simply didn't care. The latter seemed more likely, he decided; something about this lanky and well-dressed fellow gave off an air of immense apathy.

"Sorry, it's in my coat," Mike answered.

"Oh, here." John was already reaching into his own pocket, for some inexplicable reason. "Use mine."

The man's gaze—which held a good amount of surprise—flickered from the proffered phone to Stamford before settling on John. "Oh. Thank you." He sounded friendlier now, if only by a small margin, and as he slid from his seat and began to cross the room he did so with all the composure and grace of royalty. Or perhaps John had been reading too many novels since he came back to London.

"S'an old friend of mine, John Watson," said Mike as the stranger approached. No introduction for the other man, peculiarly enough.

John handed over his phone. The stranger slid it open and asked dully, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It almost didn't sound like a question, the way he said it. Mike quirked his mouth in a half-smile while John settled on polite confusion. "Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man looked at him this time, fixing him with his catlike eyes, then turned back to the phone with a furrowed brow. _Afghanistan or Iraq_. A glance to Stamford was met only with amusement, so John answered, "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—?"

With a slight creak the door swung open, and to the entering figure the stranger said, "Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you," handing John's phone back and reaching out for the mug the woman held out for him. "What happened to the lipstick?"

While John pocketed his mobile he took a quick peek at the woman, who stood a bit behind him and to the side. Early thirties, of moderate attractiveness, and looking more than a little put out. Ah, he knew that look. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," said the stranger, taking his coffee and walking the other way. "Your mouth's too… small now." He made a vague gesture before taking a drink. Molly let out a disappointed "okay" to his back. John was getting the distinct impression that Molly fancied this bloke and wasn't making much progress on that front. He'd feel sorry for her if he cared, but romance was frivolous and, if anything, made John slightly irked. He was taking longer to adjust to civilian life than he'd hoped.

Then the stranger asked, apropos of nothing, "How do you feel about the violin?"

It wasn't clear to John just to whom this was meant to be addressed. He whipped around to see Molly exiting the room, then looked to Mike for assistance, and after a beat it occurred to him that _he_ was the one expected to answer. "Sorry, what?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" That scrutinizing gaze was focused on him again. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." An insincere but wide and clearly well-practiced smile graced the man's features as they stared each other down.

John blinked before turning to Stamford. "Are you—you told him about me."

Stamford shook his head. "Not a word."

This had John feeling defensive. He was on the alert, shifting on his legs. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did." The tall, aloof, dark-haired man started putting on his long coat. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. And now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly home from military service in Afghanistan." His eyes met John's for just a moment while he looped his scarf around his neck. The next words sounded almost humble, if not condescending: "It was no difficult leap."

But that didn't begin to explain everything he had said, at least to John. "How did you know about Afghanistan?" he asked with more patience than he felt.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London." The stranger was carrying on as though John hadn't spoken. "Together we ought to be able to afford it." He had crossed the room again and paused by John on his way to the door. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash, I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

It was easily the strangest parting line the veteran had ever heard. "Is that it?" he asked shortly, turning to watch the stranger go.

"Is that what?" His quick U-turn away from the door was as fluid as a dance step.

"We've only just met. And we're gonna go look at a flat."

"Problem?"

It was clear at this point that Mike's friend was either a madman or—no, definitely a madman. John smiled, incredulous hostility bubbling just below the surface. "We know nothing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting—I don't even know your _name_."

A pause. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" the stranger finished with a soft sort of condescension as he turned to leave again. Partway out the door, he leaned around it and added, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked. "Afternoon."

Once he was gone, John turned wordlessly to Stamford. "Yep," Stamford said to his unasked question. "He's always like that."

A bit overwhelmed by it all, John stood his ground, feeling as though his mind had just been invaded and not knowing whether to be intrigued or disturbed. He settled on a combination of the two.

When he checked his phone's outbox later on, the latest message read, _If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH_

All right, he was mostly intrigued.

John arrived at the flat first—or at least he thought he did. Just as he rapped on the door with the knocker, a familiar baritone called out, "Hello."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," he greeted, turning to his potential flatmate.

"Sherlock, please." They shook hands. Sherlock was wearing gloves—and expensive ones at that, if John was judging correctly. He had a firm grip, too, but not overbearingly so. Very formal sort. Surely he belonged in an upper class part of town?

"This is a prime spot," John observed. "Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady—she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"So you—stopped her husband being executed?" he clarified.

Sherlock wore a cold yet satisfied smirk. "Oh no, I ensured it."

The door opened to reveal a kindly and older woman. "Sherlock," she said fondly, greeting the tall man with a hug. When they parted she began to scold him. "Now, I've told you before, I'm a _landlady_, not a ba—"

"Missus Hudson, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock interrupted. Whatever she had been about to say, she cut off and welcomed John inside. It struck the doctor as suspicious, though he supposed curious things were to be expected around this Mr. Holmes.

The interior of the flat had an antiquated yet homey feel, despite all the clutter filling the space. The patterned wallpaper was a welcome change from the dull and bumpy olive walls of John's current flat. "Oh, this could be very nice," he said appreciatively, hobbling about the room. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes." Sherlock spoke with a hint of pride. "Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely." And just as John said, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out," he heard Sherlock add, "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Oh." John stared, feeling awkward. Sherlock turned stiffly and began picking up and rearranging things. "So this is all…"

"Well, obviously I can, um—" He cleared his throat. "Straighten things up a bit."

John noticed something _especially_ strange on the mantel. "That's a skull." He pointed with his cane, frowning.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock explained. He amended, "Well, I say _friend_…"

The pounding of footsteps echoed through the flat, approaching fast. Before John had time to react there was a dark little blur darting into the room and stopping just short of crashing into Sherlock. "You're late!" a small voice accused.

It was… a _child_?

A little girl stood before him, her hair dark and curly like Sherlock's but longer. She wore a floral print dress that was not at all weather-appropriate. A scowl adorned her features. "You said you'd come back for dinner."

"Did I not tell you there was a change of plans?" the man replied with his usual air of indifference.

"No!"

He hummed. "Well, I'm here now. This is Dr. Watson," he said, nodding to John as he began removing his outer layers.

The child rounded on John now with a calculating gaze. It was unnerving. She kept staring at him without making a sound, so he cleared his throat, saying, "Hello." Unsure of what else to do, he extended a hand for her to shake.

She brightened immediately and took his hand, shaking it with fervor. "Hi!" she chirped. "Are you going to live with us?"

Us? How many people were in this flatshare? If John had known he'd be moving in with an entire family, he would have been a bit more hesitant to look at the place. "Sorry?" That was beginning to feel like his catchphrase.

"John Watson, Geneva Holmes," Sherlock said with a sigh as he hung his coat on the rack. "I would've mentioned her sooner, but it didn't seem important."

"Hey!" she piped up indignantly, bristling. "I think _you_ should be the one we keep a secret! I'm lovable and great to be around and you're just a _prat_."

He walked over and squatted down in front of her, right at eye level, to fix her with a serious gaze. "What have I told you about insulting people?"

"Don't do it when Mrs. Hudson's nearby," she recited with a roll of the eyes.

"Or?"

"Or else I'm less likely to get sweets."

Sherlock smiled—for real this time, John noticed—and ruffled the girl's hair. "Close enough. You're about to ask if she's my sister," he said, glancing sideways at the other man. "Unlikely though it may seem, Dr. Watson, this is my daughter."

"Your daughter," John echoed. He was more than a little shocked that someone like Sherlock Holmes would be a parent. He just didn't strike him as the type, not in the slightest. "Right. Do you suppose it's a good idea to—to move in with a stranger when you've got a child?" Where was the mother? Are they moving because of a divorce?

"Oh, I think it should work out." Sherlock stood, straightening his suit. "You've got a strong moral principle. You like the idea of a family, but you'd rather be an uncle than a father—unlucky, since you haven't got any nieces or nephews. Saving people is why you got your doctorate; protecting them is why you joined the army. Good to have around in dangerous situations, particularly when bystanders are involved. You're not a criminal, drug abuser, or pedophile, and you don't show any signs of mental instability, so I can't think of a reason why you shouldn't be allowed near anyone under the age of ten."

Silence. John pursed his lips in thought. "How old is she?"

"Eight last month. The mother isn't involved," he answered.

Geneva piped up, "I'm the reason Dad stopped doing drugs." Ignoring her father's narrowed-eyed expression, she went on, "I was born 'cause he felt like experimenting wi—"

"Yes, that's wonderful, you can stop now," he cut in.

John was mulling all of this over in his head. A former drug addict who had a young child and solved crimes wanted to be flatmates with him. "You know, I looked you up on the internet last night," he said at length.

Sherlock, who'd been busy glaring at his daughter, turned quickly to John before putting on an obvious façade of apathy. "Anything interesting?" he asked with poorly-concealed anticipation.

"Found your website, The _Science of Deduction_."

The barest of smiles graced the man's features. "What did you think." Less of a question, more of an instruction.

John sighed. "Well, definitely didn't mention anything about kids."

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course it didn't. I'm a consulting detective, not a daycare assistant."

Geneva tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket. "I think Mr. Lestrade's come to tell you about another of those suicides," she mumbled. The rumble of an approaching car sounded just as she finished speaking. Sherlock frowned.

"Something different this time," he said to himself, looking out the window.

Someone was hurrying up the stairs. A grey-haired man appeared with a grave expression, seeming a bit winded from his apparent rush. "Where?" demanded Sherlock.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the man replied. Since his entrance, Geneva had become glued to her father's side.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did." Sherlock's curiosity had evidently been piqued. "Will you come?" asked the stranger.

"Who's on forensics?"

"S'Anderson," the man admitted begrudgingly. Sherlock's expression said he'd been dreading this answer.

"I don't like his mustache," said Geneva. Her brow was furrowed in annoyance.

The man was verging on exasperation. "Neither of you have to so much as talk to him. Sherlock, he's not your _assistant_—"

"I _need_ an assistant," said Sherlock.

"You're not bringing your daughter to another crime scene," the older man said in a tone that left no room for argument. "Look, will you come?"

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind." The man thanked him and left.

Not for the first time, John began to wonder just what in the hell he was getting himself into.

* * *

Just a quick little idea I felt like throwing together. It's pretty incomplete, I know, but if I went on for too much longer it'd turn into a fully-fledged story and it's just a huge hassle!

I may end up writing a second part at some point. Possibly. We'll see, I guess.


	2. Chapter 2

This, John decided, must have been the real reason Sherlock needed him around. Not to help solve crimes or save his life—though that was certainly an added bonus—but to be a father when he couldn't.

In the midst of a case, Sherlock was all but unreachable. He'd stare at the ceiling for hours on end, fingers steepled and a nicotine patch on each arm, completely tuned out from the world around him. His trips to the lab or mortuary would often be spontaneous and done without warning or explanation, except when he needed someone to talk at. If not for John being around to make dinner for Geneva and send her off to school and help her with everyday things, like comforting her when she talked about how some stupid boy was bullying her, there would be stretches of time where she'd be neglected. The worst part was that she seemed _used_ to it.

"He just does that sometimes," she said with a shrug when John asked her about it. "That's why we moved out of the last flat, so he wouldn't have to worry about me starving and he'd be able to concentrate on his work. I can take care of myself, though," she insisted, pouting.

John gaped. "What if I hadn't moved in?"

"Then Mrs. Hudson would've taken care of me," she replied, shrugging again. "She does when you two are out anyway."

This didn't sit well with John. He confronted Sherlock the next day while Gen was at school. "How could you just ignore her like that all the time when you're on a case? You—you're her _dad_, Sherlock, do you even know what that means?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock said in a monotone as he examined a beaker. It contained a frothy purple substance. "I am fully aware of my shortcomings as a father. You're picking up the slack well enough, I think. Hold these." He forced a small stack of books into John's hands before returning to his experiment. "Careful, some acid spilled and may have gotten on the spines."

Dropping the contaminated volumes onto the floor, John stared at his flatmate in unsuppressed rage. "Sher—I'm not a nanny, for fuck's sake!" he cried. "Would it kill you to at least act like you care about _your own daughter?_"

"Of course I care about her." He shook a tube of solution lightly, frowning. "If I didn't I would have let Mycroft take her in."

"Why would you want her to live with you if you can't give her what she needs?" John demanded, fists clenched. "Just how selfish are you?"

Sherlock paused, setting everything down and turning to John. "Does she look unhappy?"

"It doesn't matter if—"

"Yes, it does. Tell me, John, does she look unhappy to you? Do you think she'd be better or worse off if I sent her to live with my brother, or perhaps a complete stranger? Would you like to be the one to explain to her why she's been abandoned by _both_ of her parents, or would you prefer to keep things the way they are?" His voice had an unmistakable edge to it, as well as a level of frigidity that sent a chill up John's spine and had him standing a bit straighter on instinct.

The ex-soldier deflated a bit with guilt. "I didn't mean—listen, just pay more attention to her, would you? She's just a kid."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and went back to his malodorous project. "David Lehman has been transferred to another school," he said following a pause.

"Sorry, what?"

"That nuisance who was bothering Geneva. I asked for a favor from Mycroft and he had the boy transferred."

That conversation had taken place last week, when Sherlock was busy scouring what he called his "mind palace" in the other room. John grinned in spite of himself.

Some of the cases required Sherlock to travel, and due to having a steady job and needing (wanting) to take care of Geneva, John stayed behind. And to save Mrs. Hudson the trouble of having to look after the girl every weekend, he'd taken to inviting Molly over to babysit. The two got on well enough that Molly would even spend time with her on John's days off, though Geneva, who had inherited her father's penchant for blunt honesty, had the habit of reducing Molly to a near-tearful state before realizing what she had said.

"I don't think he's ever going to fancy you," Gen said between bites of her sandwich. John, who was just entering the room with a fresh cup of tea, wasn't sure whether to be more fascinated or mortified.

Molly looked at her with a confused smile. "Um, sorry, who?" she stammered.

"My dad. You're too emotional; it annoys him." Geneva made to wipe her hands on her dress, but then, seeming to remember her manners, grabbed her napkin instead. "It's a waste of time anyway. I don't think he's ever fancied anyone, not even my mum."

Molly's chin was beginning to quiver. Her gaze sank to her lap. "Right, of course."

John decided it was time to jump in. "Gen, could you go give your dad a call so Molly and I can talk?"

"But he hates getting phone calls," she argued.

"He can deal with it. Tell him I said he should get you something nice before he leaves Argentina." She nodded and ran off to fetch the mobile her uncle had given her.

John sat down at the table across from Molly, setting the tea in front of her. She gave a grateful smile and took a sip. "She's a kid, she doesn't know," he said apologetically.

"No, she's right. I'm being silly." Molly laughed between sniffles, tugging at her blouse. "We're not very well-matched anyway, are we? I really am wasting my time. I just thought—"

"Molly, breathe," he instructed. She complied, inhaling through her mouth. "Maybe you should go out tonight, try to pull a bloke who's a little less… mechanical."

This time her laugh was a happier one. "Maybe," she said. "Are you two all right for dinner?"

"Yeah, I was thinking of ordering curry anyway." They both stood and she went in for a hug, to his surprise, but he didn't mind. It felt good to interact with people in normal ways again.

Molly was about to leave when Gen reentered. "Dad wanted me to remind—oh, you're going already?" Her shoulders sagged in disappointment.

The two adults exchanged glances. "I've just got some things to take care of," said Molly, pulling on her cardigan. "I could come back… tomorrow?" She looked at John questioningly.

Gen shook her head. "I'm going to Scotland Yard with Mr. Lestrade tomorrow," she explained. "He's promised to let me see an interrogation." For whatever reason, she seemed to hero-worship Lestrade, which made her father eternally exasperated.

"We'll call you," said John, stepping over to open the door for her. Molly turned to wave at Gen and took her leave. With one look at John, Gen seemed to catch on to what had happened and had the grace to blush.

Later that week, once Sherlock had returned, Geneva demanded money from him so she could send Molly flowers. "It's not her fault you're _stupid_," she reasoned. So a baffled Molly received a large bouquet and a card that read, _You wouldn't want to date him anyway. He keeps severed ears in the fridge. GH_

Roughly once a month, Mycroft would come to see his favorite—and only—niece, much to Sherlock's chagrin. John couldn't say he altogether minded the visits; while Mycroft irked him on the best of days, Gen liked having him around due to how much he spoiled her. While Sherlock and John weren't keen on treating her to ice cream or taking her to amusement parks (Sherlock detested both, but John just didn't have the energy after working and running around with Sherlock), Mycroft rarely said no to a single one of her whims. According to Sherlock, she even had her own yacht because of an offhand comment she'd made once about wanting to go sailing.

John was used to seeing Mycroft every now and then. What he wasn't accustomed to, however, was seeing the long-nosed man show up on his doorstep while Geneva was at school.

"I've come to speak with you, actually. I take it my brother is asleep?" he said with his usual disdainful smirk. It was ten o'clock on a weekday, and sure enough, Sherlock had only gone to sleep an hour previous, having finished up a forty-hour case.

John let him in and went to make up a pot of tea, feeling a vague sense of foreboding as he did so. Had something terrible happened, or was he there to blackmail John into compliance? What reason could a high-ranking government official have for making a casual visit to his flat for tea?

Mycroft accepted the tea politely. It was never mugs when Mycroft was around; always teapots, always loose leaf Earl Grey of a certain quality. Even Sherlock conformed to that standard, though it had occurred to John previously that Sherlock likely preferred the finer tea as well and used his brother's presence as an excuse to indulge himself.

"I have something to discuss with you," Mycroft began, "pertaining to my niece."

The warmth and smoothness of the tea took the edge off of the man's somber expression. John took a lengthy sip before acknowledging, "What's that, then?"

Mycroft went on to explain the nature of Geneva's birth. As John had already been informed, she was conceived in a drug-induced haze of lust and poor decision-making. Mycroft noted with no shortage of amusement that it was the first and likely _final_ time that Sherlock ever had sex, and afterward he had given up cocaine and whatever else he had been toying with.

"Her birth name was Marion Raleigh," he said. "She had it legally changed and fled the country after Geneva was born. She was quite an intelligent woman, too, to cover her trail as she did. After her arrival in Nova Scotia she appears to vanish."

"But you know where she is," John filled in.

For once, Mycroft looked uncomfortable. "Let's go for a walk."

It was only when they were more than a block away from 221B that Mycroft spoke up again. "I have been monitoring her for the last several years, during the course of which she's had her name changed three times. Neither Sherlock nor Geneva has expressed an interest in knowing of her whereabouts, but one can never be too careful."

John wasn't sure where this was going. A light mist began to rain down and Mycroft opened his ever-handy umbrella. "So, what? Have you lost track of her? Is she coming back to London?"

"She committed suicide last week in Tallahassee."

John was stunned. Water continued to sprinkle in small doses over the streets. The whole city smelled of rain.

"I will leave it up to you whether or not you tell Sherlock, but I ask that you not mention it to Geneva. While she is a very gifted child, she's quite… _sensitive_ as well."

He was right, but something about keeping the truth from her seemed inherently wrong. She deserved to know, didn't she, about the fate of the mother she never had the chance to meet—but once he told Sherlock, the consulting detective sat stony-faced before warning him, in no uncertain terms, never to speak of this again. With that he rose from his chair and stalked off, ending the conversation.

The following day, Gen was asking John for help with her anatomy homework, legs swinging under the table, when she asked, "Is it all right if I call you 'Uncle'?"

He glanced up from the paper to see an embarrassed flush on her cheeks. "That's—fine, yeah," he answered. A smile rose to his features and he felt strangely pleased.

Maybe moving in with this lot hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

* * *

Okay, fine, I felt compelled to write a follow-up less than a day later just because a) I couldn't get it out of my brain and b) I thought of a third part that's post-Reichenbach, but I didn't want to write that without filling in with some more story and background first.

The next few days are going to be kind of hectic, which is why I'm uploading this at nearly 4 AM on a Thursday, but the third part will come pretty soonish.


End file.
